to save an angel
by agent share bear
Summary: ...or is it too late?
1. I was there for you

Author's notes: Wilkommen to my third official Alias fic! I actually didn't plan to write another one for awhile, but one night when I couldn't sleep, this idea absolutely would not leave my mind. So, I'll write a bit, and we'll see how it goes. From this point on, I'm shooting without a script; I don't know how long this one will be, and I don't know what this one will consist of. We'll just see how it goes. With that said if you do like this and want me to continue, please let me know!  
  
Chapter 1: I was there for you  
  
I didn't know that it was so cold  
  
And you needed someone  
  
to show you the way  
  
So I took your hand and we figured out  
  
That when the tide comes  
  
I'd take you away  
  
If you want to  
  
I can save you  
  
I can take you away from here  
  
So lonely inside  
  
So busy out there  
  
And all you wanted  
  
was somebody who cares ~Michelle Branch  
The lightning stretches its limbs and tries its best to illuminate every corner of the sky; it fascinates me how it tries so briefly and so often to accomplish this feat. It reminds me of her before that day. She had tried to touch everyone's life for the better, but in most cases, it inevitably resulted in being for the worst. To know her, is to know an angel. To love her, is to love an angel fallen from grace that struggles to pick up the shattered remains of her heart. Perhaps that is why she tried so hard to touch everyone - she was merely searching for the fallen pieces of her broken heart. Yet her quest left her even more shattered. The woman I loved was strong, fearless, and unbreakable. The woman I love now is a shadow of her former self struggling to have a normal life yet plagued by the fears and paranoia of her past.  
  
Again the lightning illuminates the sky with such vivid, violent might. Although my heart too was broken that day when I saw her in such agony and torment, I must admit, I am glad she is that woman no longer. The life she devoted herself to was a life of destruction. She never should have played the lightning to their thunder; she is an angel, not a weapon to be used and manipulated at will.  
  
I have never been fond of storms, yet lately I appreciate a unique beauty within their eye. If there had never been such a storm to rage throughout my love's life, she would not be here with me now. She would have contentedly stayed in any of her previous relationships, yet the storm led her to the safety of my arms. I will never leave her as they did; I will never cause her that pain. After seeing her life torn apart by the storm that has plagued her since birth, I left it far behind and escorted her into a new life. It is ironic that as the storm rages outside, she sleeps peacefully like an angel upon a silver-lined cloud.  
  
Tonight the storm allows me glimpses of her I am rarely allowed. The destructive nature of the lightning took away the technological pleasures of my life for a short time; in this night without the noises and necessities I have become so accustomed to, I have been able to take in her gentle beauty without distraction. To see the soft glow of candlelight dancing across her body as she sleeps to melody of the raindrops is a sight I am honored to have witnessed.  
  
The outstretched limbs of the lightning faintly illuminate her figure, and it seems as though for a moment she winced in her sleep. Jaded memories of betrayal and loss keep her bound to the life she left behind that day. As the thunder rattles the windows, she stirs in her sleep.  
  
"No, no, leave him alone, don't hurt him, oh god," she murmurs, frightened as she slowly drifts from dreams of memories to her reality. Her eyelids slowly lift to reveal her doe-like eyes filled with the raindrops of her internal storm. Her eyes dart around as if to verify that her present location is not the one the ruined her slumber. Finally her gaze rests upon me, and she sighs softly, finally realizing that nothing will hurt her - not until the angels close my eyes.  
  
"I had the dream again," she whispered like a frightened child desperately seeking warmth and protection from her fears. "It was so real. I thought I was living through it again. I saw him, and I just."  
  
I gently wrap my arm around her and pull her closer to me; she sighs again, knowing that I will never let that happen again. She gazes at me with her fears twinkling in the droplets that mask her eyes, and I immediately know what is crossing her mind and frightening her all over again. Each time she awakens from reliving that day, she looks at me as if wondering how much time fate has allotted to us.  
  
"It won't happen to me," I whisper to her gently. Her eyes widen just slightly, as though she is amazed at how well I know her. I wonder if she realizes that I do love her unlike the others in her life. "Sydney, I promise you, it won't happen to me."  
  
She nods her head slightly and whispers back, "I want to believe you."  
  
"Then believe," I say, kissing her forehead gently, and then I change the subject as I must. "I should blow out the candles; they've been burning for quite awhile now."  
  
I slowly move to get up, but she suddenly grabs hold of my arm. I turn and gaze at her as the lightning again flickers against her skin as if to alert me of what threatens her within. "Don't leave me," she pleads, and then adds softly, "not yet."  
  
After offering a gentle smile, which she willingly accepts, I settle back in, comfortably entwining my arm around her figure and pulling her against me. She rests her head against my chest and whispers, "I feel safe with you."  
  
To hear those words reminds me that I have done at least one thing right in my life; I have saved this angel from a fate she never deserved. Thunder rumbles outside, but she does not stir. Despite the lives of impossibly and danger we have led individually, it amazes me that I am allowed to be here in this moment.  
  
Once she seemed to be bound to a dream that was based purely on regulations of agent protocol and avenging the deaths of those she loved. But that day her outlook suddenly changed. She ran with a fear possessing her that I have never seen before. They destroyed her; they took her very essence and shattered it. It sickens me to see how empty she has become; she lives day-to-day in fear of what could happen next. They made my angel fall, but somehow she fell into my arms. I long to destroy those who did this to her, but if I were to return to that life, it would destroy the fragile angel that remains.  
  
I find it ironic that the life of "playing by the rules" so to speak caused her to be broken in ways unimaginable, yet our life together that defies the principles of our life of espionage is the only way to piece her shattered heart back together. As I lie here with Sydney Bristow in my arms, I feel no shame nor regret for our defiance. I will save this angel at all costs.  
  
"I love you, Sydney," I whisper gently, and she offers the perfect response. She does not stir at all from her new attained peaceful slumber, and by knowing that at this moment she is not afraid, I know she loves me as well. 


	2. I mend your broken wings

Author's notes: Aww, guys, thank you SO much for all the reviews! It makes me very happy to know you've enjoyed the first part. You know, it's a little hard to write a chapter when you have nothing planned; this is just coming off the top of my head, so I hope it's okay.  
  
Chapter 2: I mend your broken wings  
When I saw the break of day I wished that I could fly away Instead of kneeling in the sand Catching teardrops in my hand  
  
My heart is drenched in wine But you'll be on my mind Forever  
  
~~Norah Jones  
Sunlight peeks through the windows briefly before the gray clouds blind its radiance. It's ironic how something so bright, warm, and magnificent can be so easily hidden from sight; yet I shouldn't be so appalled by the irony, for it happens every morning when I wake. Clouded memories hide my angel's radiance, and she no longer tries to fight away the shadow. Each morning she awakes and proceeds with the same routine as if programmed to complete the same mission over-and-over again. Her eyelids cautiously lift, and she peers at me with her innocent yet haunting orbs to be sure that I'm sleeping - she never realizes that I listen to her every breath and feel her timid movements in those initial moments of awakening. She slowly leaves our shared bed and retreats to draw her bath; those moments with the gentle warmth of the water surrounding and caressing her seem to be one of the few times when she doesn't feel all of the pained burdens she carries. But when the water cools and her pain returns, she quickly moves on to the next phase of her morning ritual. She dresses so simply despite all I give her; she says there's no need to impress anymore, for she knows I'll adore her no matter what she puts over her figure. She quietly steps out of our room and down the staircase; it's then that I usually begin my own routine, for I know that in this phase of her morning I don't have to worry about her suddenly bursting into tears and desperately seeking comfort. She simply steps into the kitchen and makes her herbal tea, another of her simple comforts.  
  
As the droplets of water fall all around me like an embracing mist, I can't help but become lost in a memory of my own; it's the one memory that reminds me that under all the layers of fear of doubt, my angel is still capable of love. One night not too long after that day, she was plagued by too many memories; she kept trembling unable to control her body due to the emotions that created such havoc on her both inside and out. I told her that all the other angels in heaven cried with her, and she said that wasn't possible. I asked her if she trusted me, and she slowly nodded, unable then to speak any words regarding trust in her fragile state. I told her to close her eyes, which she did although timidly, and I led her outside onto the beach as a light mist had started to fall. "Look," I whispered, and she slowly opened her eyes and took in each and every innocent droplet that fell from the heavens; "They cry for you, Sydney. They weep for all you've been through. They sob for not rescuing you."  
  
"They did rescue me," she replied, as tears of own rolled down her cheeks and mixed with the raindrops. "They sent you to me."  
  
It was at that moment that I saw a spark from the former fire that used to constantly blaze in her eyes. Tears of angels fell rapidly around us when we shared our first true, pure kiss of passion and pain. Those moments seemed to last for hours as our arms entwined around each other desperately wanting to be closer and longing to never be separated from that rarely attainable closeness.  
  
"They're still crying," she whispered in such a haunting, innocent tone as she rested her head against my chest. "Why do they cry for me now?"  
  
"Tears of joy," I whispered back, gently kissing her forehead. "They cry tears of joy for us."  
  
As the raindrops continue to fall in my memory, the steamy mist around me ends. I wrap a towel around my waist and as I step into our bedroom, I hear the downstairs door closing. It's magnificent, I muse, how our schedules are perfectly timed to each other's, yet I wonder if she has ever noticed that feat. I peer through the window and take in the view; anyone else would naturally appreciate the gentle morning light glinting against the ocean as the waves lap against the shore, but all I gaze at is my angel sitting in the sand staring out at the endless waters as she slowly sips her warm tea.  
  
I take my time getting dressed although I long to be there beside her; she needs time alone in order to properly heal, but I agonize through those moments. I long to know her every thought and her every feeling; perhaps if I possessed such knowledge, then I could heal her wounds myself. Despite my longings, I know quite well that the only force strong enough to restore her spirit to its former glory is time; I find this especially difficult since I have never been renowned as a patient man.  
  
Staring into the mirror only evokes a dismal image in my mind; as I look at the man who peers back at me, I find myself wondering if despite all my efforts, I will never be what my angel needs. I wonder if when she gazes at me, she sees only the man she loves or the reputation that is bound to him. As I finish buttoning my white, collared shirt, I'm curious to know what will become of us once she recovers from the trauma. Will she return to her former life even though she vowed not to; if she does, will she return to her previous devotion to the rules that kept us apart? Throughout my life, I have never been particularly close to another; I had no need to for that closeness except when the natural inclinations for warmth and affection got the best of me, but even then, I rarely indulged those longings. But since that day, I feel as though somehow my soul was entwined with hers; if I lose her, I'll only be half the man I am today. She loves me, I remind myself; she's merely trapped in the effects of trauma still. I close my eyes and travel back to that night when our long-denied passion and pain collided; she loves me, but will she always?  
  
Thunder rumbles faintly, as if to alert me to the storm that is quickly brewing in my own soul; but I ignore the tumultuous stirrings inside. Instead I walk down the staircase with the intent to free my angel whether she will appreciate it for eternity or not. Loving an angel - my angel - is to love the most precious, rare beauty in the world; to be loved by angel is to experience the famed and nearly unfathomable love of perfection in its purest form. To know that there are those who don't love her as she should be loved - to know that the few who supposedly loved her would hurt her to the point of trauma - it makes me sick inside. To know that she may return to those who hurt her instead of remaining in my arms sickens me as well.  
  
Slowly I step through the door and close it gently behind me; my gaze rests on her as she sits in the sand with her knees pulled up to her chest and her head resting against her kneecaps. She lifts her head up for a moment to sip her tea then returns back into her position. With its infinitely haunting yet gentle caress, the wind tosses her soft, brown tresses around and seems to whisper its mystic words into her ears alone.  
  
"You're beautiful," I whisper into her ear, mimicking the wind's gentle caress as I wrap my arms around her.  
  
"You're upset with me," she replies, staring ahead at the ocean and the gray clouds hovering above it.  
  
"I'm not," I reply, "what makes you say that?"  
  
"I can feel it," she whispers, slowly turning her tear-filled gaze to meet mine. "Please don't lie to me. You're upset. Why?"  
  
I sigh, knowing that I can not avoid her simple question especially when she gazes at me in such a manner. I sit next to her in the glistening, white sand, pulling her against me and say, "I've just been lost in memories of my own; my insecurities have been getting the best of me this morning."  
  
My angel suddenly moves out of my grasp and kneels in the sand; she gazes at me so passionately it pierces through to my very essence. Her trembling hands wrap around mine as she whispers, "I have to tell you something, but I'm afraid. I don't want anything to happen to you. like it did to him. I love you, I truly do, and I need you to believe me. You are the reason why I'm alive; if you hadn't been there. that night. I wouldn't have stood a chance. I know I'm still not much, but one day I'll get better - I'll get better for you."  
  
Tears trickle down my love's paling cheeks; I reach to wipe them away, but she keeps her trembling hold upon my hand. "Don't lose your faith in me," she pleads. "Without you, I'm nothing."  
  
I long to reply with the poetic metaphors that have been bouncing back- and-forth against the walls of my mind, but fate offers no such chance for conversational poetry. A warm, gentle mist falls from the heavens, and a hint of that initial spark from her former fire twinkles in her eyes.  
  
"The angels cry. they cry tears of joy because you love me," I whisper to her as our tears mix with the raindrops, and my cherished memory is suddenly resurrected. At first, I gently kiss away her tears, but the innocent, butterfly kisses turn into another that intertwines our very essences together. All the pain and insecurity, the fear and the trauma vanish as the thunder rumbles and the lightning illuminates the clouded sky. 


	3. Let me help you

Author's notes: Wow, I never thought anyone would like this one. You guys make me so happy - especially when you keep guessing at who it is. I can't tell you; that takes out all the fun. I mean, seriously, I admitted that this was all about Marshall, you'd quit reading! :P  
  
Chapter 3: Let me help you  
  
Don't fight the feeling, relax Oh child, the knots in your back 'Cause you've been holding on I can only feel you when you're reaching out I'll talk you through memories Just keep breathing with me It's time to hold my hand And walk into the revolution  
  
~Robbie Williams  
One of my greatest pleasures in our simple life together is merely watching her; despite all that has happened, her gentle grace still remains. There is never a moment when she isn't beautiful, yet she will say differently. She twists her hair up into a loose bun, allowing a few strands to fall against her cheeks; her hands complete such a simple task as though part of their usual routine, but her facial expression reveals that she is again lost in a memory. Her eyes gaze off to an undefined point, and she bites her lower lip as though struggling to remember every detail that surrounds her so suddenly. "Penny for your thoughts, dear," I say, hoping to interrupt her before the dreadful memories reveal themselves to her.  
  
My voice apparently registers in her mind, for she slowly shakes her head as if to dismiss her thoughts. "They aren't worth that much," she replies with the far-off gaze still in her eyes.  
  
"Then I guess you aren't thinking of me," I say, to which she laughs; her laughter is such a rare beauty these days, it seems. One day, I remind myself, her laughter will echo down the hallways, and her smile will again outshine the sun. Tragically, that day isn't today, for again her expression contorts into one caused by the pain of reliving the past.  
  
I slowly cross the room and sit beside her on the couch; as I move to put my arm around her, she shakes her head and escapes my grasp. I stare at her quizzically as she gently rests her hand against my cheek and says, "No, I want to help you."  
  
"Help me?" I ask, peering into her orbs desperate to know the thoughts that race through my angel's mind.  
  
"You do so much for me and nearly nothing for yourself. You never sleep; you barely eat," she says, gently tracing her fingers along the faint circles that seemed to permanently dwell under my eyes. Slowly her gentle touch graces my neck and her expression contorts again, "and you're so tense."  
  
"Sydney, I'm-" I start to say, but she places a finger to my lips and gently smiles; I can't argue with that smile. With her delicate grace, she slips behind me on the couch like a kitten longing for the most difficult place to slip into; she sits upon her knees, and I can feel the fallen strands of her hair brushing against my neck just slightly. As her fingers touch the base of my neck, I mumble incoherently, and she laughs faintly.  
  
Her hands gently massage my tense muscles; her touch is so soft yet speaks so loud. In each movement, she expresses a different thought; she's perfect in every way, yet she doesn't know. She begins to hum a faint, haunting melody, and before I can stop myself, I ask, "What song is that?"  
  
"A lullaby that my," she begins to explain, but she pauses for a moment; she trembles slightly, and I suddenly realize my mistake: I let another memory take her over, "father used to sing to me. It was the only thing to get me to sleep sometimes."  
  
She wraps her arms around me and leans her head against my back so innocently. She sighs and whispers, "I don't understand why daddy killed him."  
  
"No one does, dear," I whisper back as gently as I can without my hatred for her father seeping into my words. It was the day Jack Bristow snapped and destroyed Sydney's very existence. I turn around just slightly, and she collapses into my arms just as she did that day. Tears stream down her cheeks as she trembles.  
  
"I don't understand. He was always so protective of me, but. he never should have." she mumbles through her sobs.  
  
"Shh, Sydney," I whisper, rocking her gently in my arms, "no one will hurt you again."  
  
Thunder shakes the window panes as my hatred toward Jack Bristow seethes within my soul; he destroyed an innocent, beautiful angel and claimed to be doing so out of pure love and devotion. He has ruined my angel's life; since birth, he was scheming for ways to form her into his prodigy while treating her with fatherly disregard. He only cared for her when it was convenient; he put her through so much yet claimed to be doing so because as the old adage says "father knows best." Whenever her attention drifted away or whenever she caught glimpses of the life she could have had, he would pull upon the leash he had bound her with for all these years; however, when his attention wasn't focused upon Sydney, she became infatuated with someone who returned the trapped feelings. She drifted further away until she had nearly found bliss, but Jack Bristow snatched her leash so hard that it severed.  
  
As she trembles in my arms, I know it was more than just the metaphorical leash that was severed that day; her entire life was ripped apart. My wish is to see what happened that day through her eyes; I want to know every horrid, wretched feeling that overwhelmed her to the point of trauma, for only then can I truly mend her broken wings.  
  
"I wanted to help you," she whispers, sniffling softly, "but. no matter what I do, everything ends up like this."  
  
"This is part of the trauma, dear, it won't last forever. I'm going to get you through this; I believe in you even when you don't," I whisper back, kissing her forehead.  
  
"But what if it does last forever?" she asks as her piercing gaze locks with mine. "Death follows me no matter where I go. I've tried so hard to save the world, but I've killed everyone I loved."  
  
"Sydney." I whispered.  
  
"I don't want to lose you; I can't lose you. You gave me some semblance of a life when I had no reason to live, but I can't ever repay you. I try-and-try, and it always ends up like this," she says as tears roll down her cheeks again. "I love you more than anything I've ever known, but I can't ever show it the way I want to."  
  
As she rests in my arms again, I can't honestly say that I wish he had lived that day. I hate Jack Bristow for how he destroyed my angel, yet the fact that she sits here in my arms and tells me how much she loves me makes me wonder where that hatred should truly lie. The love of her life was murdered in cold blood, and I'm sitting here enjoying the rewards of an unfortunate circumstance. I tell myself we would have ended up like this eventually, but if that day hadn't occurred exactly as it did, Sydney Bristow and I would not be in a bittersweet romance. We would have continued about our so-called normal lives of danger and deceit, yet we would remain true to our protocol.  
  
If that day had not come and gone, I wouldn't know love or compassion. I would still be half a man without a soul doomed to struggle against life's restraints alone. My bliss came at her expense, but she won't admit it; perhaps that is why the trauma plagues her still: guilt. Fate plays a sick game; I sit here with an angel in my arms and feel as though I'm drenched in guilt. 


End file.
